


Orbital Observation: An Evening in Soho Square

by Kalypso



Series: Sort of trilogy, about evenings, which eventually acquired a fourth part [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-20
Updated: 2010-08-20
Packaged: 2018-01-03 08:11:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1068100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalypso/pseuds/Kalypso
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John makes a deduction about Sherlock's past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Orbital Observation: An Evening in Soho Square

**Author's Note:**

> In case it helps, here's a photo of Centre Point from Soho Square at sunset.

John Watson sat on a bench in Soho Square, watching the sunset turn the grey block of Centre Point an unexpectedly pretty shade of pink.

There didn't seem to be much else to do. Originally, when Sherlock invited him to crime scenes, he thought he was wanted for his medical expertise. But Sherlock was so well up on corpses, and the weird and wonderful stories they could tell, that John's input wasn't usually necessary. This time, he'd had a quick look at the body in the white tent the police had erected in one corner of the garden. Then he'd left them to it, and sat down a little way off, while Sherlock bounced round the magpie-timbered hut at the heart of the square, taking pictures of the grass on his mobile phone.

The gates to the garden were closed off with blue and white tape, and curious workers and tourists were streaming round the outer square, peering through the railings as they tried to see what was happening on the inside.

_Round and round the garden..._

Centre Point faded into the usual grey monolith as the sun sank further. Or rather - John corrected himself - as the Earth turned on its axis and carried the British Isles further away from the sun's rays. _He_ knew that. Did Sherlock really not understand something so elementary, or was he just trying to wind everyone up?

_Round and round the garden, like a teddy bear..._

John frowned as he thought it through, then chuckled.

"We can go now," said Sherlock, suddenly appearing in front of him. "I've told them to find a blonde bank worker with size seven shoes who spent the weekend in Helsinki. Why were you laughing?"

"Oh... nothing."

"Of course it's something. Moreover, from your embarrassed attempt to cover it up, it's obviously something to do with _me_ , so I think I'm entitled to know about it."

John sighed as he stood up. "Well... it was nothing much. It was just the thought of you and your mother playing tickling games."

Sherlock stiffened. " _Tickling games?_ "

"You know... Round and round the garden, like a teddy bear, one step, two step, tickle you under there."

Sherlock was staring at him in pale blue shock. The force of it made John wince, but the import was clear. He'd finally, and completely unintentionally, landed a hit.

"Explain your method."

"Look, it wasn't that funny, forget about it..."

" _Explain to me how you got there!_ "

"OK, OK, I will. You know that time you told me you deleted all irrelevant information from your memory, to keep room for what mattered. You said you didn't care whether the Earth went round the sun, or the moon, or round and round the garden, like a teddy bear. I thought afterwards it was odd that you'd delete the solar system but keep a nursery rhyme. But just now, I thought it must be because it was such early programming - you couldn't get rid of it, because it was so basic, like Hal and Daisy..."

"Who the hell are Hal and Daisy?"

"Oh, I know, you wouldn't bother with science fiction... I'll explain another time. But the point is it comes from very early childhood. You can't forget it, because it's almost the first thing you remember. Who plays tickling games? Mothers and babies. So I had a sudden mental image of you as a curly-haired toddler... it was rather sweet, really."

As if that would make whatever nerve he'd touched any better. He almost wished that Sherlock would tell him he was an idiot, and that nursery rhymes were an essential tool in solving crimes. He'd prefer sarcasm to this uncomfortable silence.

"Well," said Sherlock, after a long pause. "I must congratulate you, John. You're beginning to get the hang of deduction at last."

"Thank you."

"Of course, your conclusion is quite wrong. It was nothing to do with Mummy."

"Oh. I'm sorry." John's forehead wrinkled. A nanny, perhaps?

Sherlock started to move away, towards one of the garden gates. Then he turned back for a moment, and looked straight at John. Evidently he had earned an answer.

"It was my brother."

Mycroft. Of course. As soon as he was told, John could hear that voice - precise, amused and faintly sinister - reciting the rhyme into the infant Sherlock's ear.

Ducking under the police tape, he fancied he saw a slight movement up on one of the walls of Soho Square. Had that CCTV camera turned to observe Sherlock as he stalked off towards Oxford Street?

He glared at the camera. "Big Brother," he muttered, and quickened his stride to catch up with his friend.


End file.
